Despite this haste and secrecy, word quickly spread through the darkened city. Landucci recorded
Everyone was astonished that such a thing could be done; it was difficult to understand. They were put to death the same night, and I could not restrain myself from weeping as I saw young Lorenzo Tornabuoni carried past the Canto de’ Tornaquinci on a bier, shortly before dawn.11
At that time of year dawn was between five and six, by which time Landucci, a mere apothecary, not only knew what had happened, but was waiting outside his corner shop at the Canto de’ Tornaquinci for the cortège to pass on its way to the neighbouring Palazzo Tornabuoni. He would not have been alone: the darkened street would have been lined with silent figures, some doubtless as moved as Landucci.
Savonarola’s behaviour during this period remains puzzling. As early as 9 July Landucci had recorded:
Plague broke out in San Marco, and many of the Frati left the monastery and went out into the country to the villas of their fathers and relatives and friends. Savonarola remained at San Marco, with only a few Frati. By now there were around thirty-four houses stricken with the plague in Florence, and there was also widespread fever.12
Such action was characteristic of Savonarola – determined to remain at his post, even if this endangered his life. He may have been forbidden to preach by the Signoria on account of the plague, to say nothing of his excommunication, but he was still able to consult in private, especially with powerful figures like Francesco Valori and other influential Piagnoni. Indeed, the Piagnoni constantly looked to the ‘little friar’ for guidance. And when the Tornabuoni family begged Savonarola to intercede on behalf of the amiable and popular young Lorenzo, Savonarola is said to have asked the Signoria to show mercy – though seemingly in a manner which made it plain that he was only going through the motions. In fact, there is no record of his intervention, and some even doubt that he did anything at all. In direct contrast to his plea for forgiveness amongst opposing citizens after the flight of Piero de’ Medici, Savonarola made no public appeal for clemency with regard to any of the condemned men. All we have is a letter he sent to Giovambattista Ridolfi, brother of the condemned Niccolò, on 19 August – that is, two days after the original trial had condemned him to death:
Thus, my Giovambattista, in this time of your adversity revive the virtue of faith and the greatness of your spirit and consider that the honours of this world, as well as its riches, vanish like the wind, and our time upon earth forever grows shorter … Perhaps God has ordained this penance for your brother’s salvation. Suffering can often save those who might otherwise be damned on account of their prosperity.13
Hardly consoling words for the brother of a man under sentence of death, and indicatively offering no hope of reprieve. Note too that Savonarola addressed him as ‘my Giovambattista’ (the original Italian, Giovambattista mio, gives the flavour more strongly). And so he should have done, for Giovambattista Ridolfi was one of his closest and most loyal followers – which makes this letter appear all the more inconsiderate, not to say heartless, although it was undeniably in accord with that unworldly facet of Savonarola’s nature.
Precisely how much Savonarola was adhering to that facet, and practising what he preached, during this period is open to question. He may have remained in isolation – both spiritual and medical – at San Marco, along with his few closest disciples, but this was also a period when he (or at least his followers) sought to consolidate his political power against the backlash that inevitably followed the five executions. Surprisingly, despite widespread sorrow (such as that of Landucci), this appears to have worked to such an extent that the Milanese envoy reported on 10 September: ‘For the time being it is undeniable that the Friar’s party are in complete control of the government, without any opposition.’14 Bartoli’s two-month term as gonfaloniere was followed in September by three further Piagnoni sympathisers in succession holding this office. Such was Savonarola’s popularity that during November the diarist Parenti recorded:
So great was the esteem in which Fra Girolamo was now held in the city that medals containing his portrait were cast in bronze. One side showed his head surrounded with the inscription Savonarola ordinis praedicatorum doctissimus [Savonarola of the succession of the greatest prophets], and the other showed Rome with a dagger suspended above it and the encircling words Gladius Domini super terram cito et velociter [The sword of the Lord, striking and swift].15
Savonarola spent his days and nights in seclusion in his cell writing what many consider to be his major literary legacy. From around July 1497 until early February 1498, he embarked upon a period of prodigious creative output, producing no fewer than two complete books in six months. One of these was virtually his spiritual testament, whilst the other was a summary of his political ideas. As if this were not enough, at the same time he also comprehensively revised and translated into Italian Disputiones adversus astrologiam divinatricem, the anti-astrological work that he had co-authored four years previously with Pico della Mirandola.
Triumphus Crucis (The Triumph of the Cross) contained a summation of Savonarola’s spiritual beliefs. Surprisingly, the work begins from a sceptical point of view, using words that would not have been out of place in the works of Descartes, the rationalist thinker who was to initiate modern philosophy well over a century later. ‘We will not rely upon any authority, and will proceed as if we reject the teachings of any man in the world, no matter how wise he might be. Instead, we will rely solely upon natural reason.’16 He then goes on to analyse this bold assertion. ‘Reason proceeds from the seen to the unseen in the following manner. All our knowledge is derived from the senses, which perceive the outer world; the intellect, on the other hand, perceives the substance of things.’ This remarkable piece of philosophising prefigures both the empiricism and the rationalism of early modern philosophy. However, the ensuing sentences make it clear that Savonarola did not accept such enquiries for their own sake (as would Descartes and his contemporary, the early empiricist John Locke). Instead, Savonarola assumes that the passage from outer knowledge (the senses) to inner knowledge (reason) is a progress towards a specific end: ‘the knowledge of matter thus rises to the knowledge of the unseen and hence to God’. This is followed by the further assumption that ‘philosophers seek to find God in the marvels of visible nature’. He then compares this to the similar process of how ‘in the visible Church we seek and discover the invisible Church, whose supreme head is Jesus Christ’. All pretence to scepticism and rational argument are then replaced by Savonarola’s familiar apocalyptic visions, combining the awesome grandeur of the Old Testament with the simple faith of the New Testament. The mystic chariot of old passes across the heavens, bearing Christ the conqueror with his crown of thorns, and his bloodied wounds, illuminated by the celestial light from on high, ‘shining like a triple sun, representing the Blessed Trinity’.
The work continues in similar fashion through four books of fundamentalist argument, backed by the force of Savonarola’s considerable intellectual reasoning, along with metaphysical pronouncements and compelling visions such as were found in his sermons – the very combination that achieved the astonishing feat of simultaneously convincing both the finest and the simplest minds in Florence. However, somehow this testament lacks the force of his presence, which is so much easier to envisage in passages from the transcriptions of his sermons. It is these latter that best enable us to imagine the cowled figure in the pulpit beneath the high nave of Florence Cathedral, his mesmeric voice ringing out over the sea of rapt faces below, carrying on his personal dialogue with them, questioning and answering himself, conjuring up before them the frightful visions that had come to him in his solitary cell during his long vigils of agonising deprivation, self-laceration (and possibly the incapacitating pain of migraine-induced hallucinations).
Now, with Florence surrounded by her enemies, having been smitten by plague and fever, it was the memory of this charismatic figure that inspired the new gonfa
loniere urgently to seek out Savonarola’s political advice. The man elected gonfaloniere at the turn of 1498 was the Piagnone Giuliano Salviati, who along with his Signoria found himself at a loss when faced with the city’s seemingly insurmountable internal divisions and external threats. It was as if the children of Israel were awaiting Moses’ descent from the mountain with the Ten Commandments. Yet no such practical advice was forthcoming from Savonarola. This time there would be no suggestion of astute political reforms intended to unite the citizens in a patriotic political unit, nor did he elect to echo biblical tradition with thundering pronouncements as if writ in stone. It was as if Savonarola knew that the time had come for him to deliver himself of his entire testament, both sacred and secular – the accumulated wisdom of experience that he had gained with God’s guidance during his forty-five years on Earth.
So instead of coming to the aid of Florence once more in her time of need, Savonarola chose to remain in seclusion and write his political testament, Trattato circa il reggimento e il governo della città di Firenze (Treatise on the rule and government of the city of Florence). In this he summarises in more general terms much of the political advice he had given out in his sermons at earlier times of crisis. In place of the Old Testament prophet was the voice of guidance, specifically aimed at ‘the mutable, restless and ambitious character of the Florentine people which is best suited to a civil government, that is to say a republic’.17 Indeed, it is no idle claim to assert that Florentines, more than any other citizens of the time, were the most apt audience for such a work. Not since Ancient Greece had there been a city state in which the people (or at least a sizeable section of them) had become accustomed to having such a say in their government. Even when this freedom had been completely subverted by the Medici, Lorenzo the Magnificent had well understood the necessity of making it appear as if the democratic processes were being observed.
Unlike some previous classics in political philosophy (such as Plato’s Republic) Savonarola’s treatise was to be no prescription for a heavenly utopia. This was a work of Renaissance political philosophy, written some fifteen years before Machiavelli’s The Prince, which is usually taken as the pioneering work in this field. (Indeed, The Prince contains credible evidence that Machiavelli had read Savonarola’s treatise.) Savonarola points out that man is a free agent and, as such, must submit to government of some sort. He examines the flaws and evils of tyranny, and warns against its opposite, popular anarchy. Instead, he proposes the best safeguard to human freedom to be a Great Council, on the Florentine model, which helps to guarantee the democratic nature of a society.
Savonarola’s Trattato was far in advance of its time, just as the republican government of Florence (which Savonarola had played such a large part in forming) was in many ways a forerunner of our modern Western political state. This is not to say that Florence was a popular liberal democracy such as we would recognise; nor that Savonarola’s treatise was a consistent prescription for such rule. On the contrary: at the outset Savonarola does in fact state that the finest form of government would undoubtedly be absolutist rule by a righteous man. However, he was forced to concede that both reason and experience indicated that ‘government of this sort is not practical for all types of people … especially Florentines’.
What is one to make of this? No one could possibly have coerced Savonarola into making such a statement. Yet it is precisely here that he pinpoints his own flaw. He believed in a free government for the Florentines, yet at the same time he insisted upon a strict morality being imposed upon these ‘mutable, restless and ambitious’ people. The man who sought to introduce a strong code of justice also sought to introduce a strong code of morality. Civil freedom should come at the expense of personal freedom. Such anomalous motives are frequently encountered in revolutionary leaders of all types (from Cromwell to Lenin). Yet justice and morality, by their very definition, are the concern not of one man but of the people, who for the most part do not see social justice and personal morality as identical matters. This particular political incongruity may remain unresolved to this day, but Savonarola was the first modern political philosopher to recognise it, even if it was at the expense of his own cherished beliefs.
fn1 The Great Schism lasted from 1378 until 1417, during most of which time there were two popes, one in Rome and another in Avignon, neither of whom recognised the other’s authority.
fn2 The traditional annual horse race, which had taken place over a mile-long course through the city streets, with the jockeys colourfully attired in the emblems of each of the city’s districts. The crowds lined the streets, cheering on the horse representing their district, and the day on which the race was run always had a festival air. Such universal light-hearted public enjoyment, combined as it was with widespread gambling, would have been anathema to Savonarola. A remnant of such races can be seen today in the annual palio that is still held in the central piazza of Siena.
fn3 The suburb of poor fishermen’s shacks upstream by the city walls on the south bank of the Arno.
fn4 Florence’s equivalent of a Ministry of Supply.
fn5 It was this confession that produced the precise details of Piero de’ Medici’s daily round of debauchery (see here).
fn6 Father of the renowned Renaissance historian Francesco Guicciardini.
fn7 Some sources place the violent Strozzi incident immediately after this. Martines, drawing as well on Cerretani and Parenti, makes a case for it happening ‘in the hours leading up to the final decision … in the midst of that furore’,10 which seems more likely under the circumstances described, despite the testimony of Guicciardini’s father.
19
Open Defiance
BY EARLY 1498 Florence was in the grip of yet another unusually fierce winter. On 6 January Landucci recorded: ‘At this time the cold was extreme, and the Arno froze over.’1 Later he would write of ‘there having been frost for more than two months’. Such weather had driven the people from the countryside back into the city, yet by way of relief, ‘There was not so much talk about the plague now, as it was only in one or two houses, but not more than that.’ 6 January also marked the feast of the Epiphany, celebrating the visit by the three Magi to the infant Christ, which in the city was honoured by a traditional symbolic ceremony:
The Signoria of Florence went to the offering at San Marco, and approached Fra Girolamo to kiss his hand at the altar. Many thoughtful men were surprised by this, not just his enemies but also among his friends.
Rumours began to spread that Savonarola would soon emerge from San Marco and resume delivering his famous sermons, thus openly defying the papal authority of his excommunication. The ambassador from Ferrara, curious to discover whether there was any truth in these rumours, called on Savonarola and asked him directly if he intended to resume preaching. Savonarola replied that he would do this ‘when he received the sign from those who were able to command him’.2 The ambassador asked if this meant that he was awaiting an order from the pope or the Signoria, but Savonarola replied that he would not act on orders from the Signoria, or from the pope, who had done nothing to reform his own wickedness and persisted in refusing to annul Savonarola’s wrongful excommunication. Instead, Savonarola claimed, ‘he awaited the command of One who was superior to the pope and to all other living creatures’.
The Signoria was left in a predicament. Florence was desperate for the pope to intervene in the matter of Pisa, and return the port to Florentine rule in order to relieve the continuing food shortages in the city. At the same time the Signoria also recognised the need to maintain its popularity amongst Savonarola’s supporters by attempting to persuade Alexander VI to rescind the excommunication. An indication of the importance the Signoria and the citizens of Florence attached to the matter of Savonarola’s excommunication can be seen in the fact that the lawyer Domenico Bonsi was despatched as a second ambassador to Rome specifically to negotiate with Alexander VI on this matter, in the hope of obtaining for Savonarola a ‘tot
al and free absolution’.3 But Alexander VI was adamant. Florence had now become integral to his wider political ambition of domination in Italy, and in order to achieve this he needed the city to join the Holy League that he now commanded. Only if Florence joined the league would he even consider the matter.
The ‘One who was superior to the Pope and to all other living creatures’ soon spoke to Savonarola, and he immediately announced that he intended to resume preaching the pre-Lenten sermons. On 11 February the cowled figure with his hooked nose and piercing eyes left San Marco, surrounded by his bodyguard of loyal acolytes, proceeding down the Via del Cocomero to Florence Cathedral. This year the theme of his sermons was to be taken from Exodus, the second book of the Old Testament, which told how Moses had led the tribe of Israel out of slavery in Egypt to the Promised Land. ‘As soon as Savonarola stepped up into the pulpit, the people were so overjoyed at his return that they immediately burst into song with the words of the popular hymn “Te deum laudamus” (We praise thee, O God).’4 Not in any way mollified by this reception, Savonarola began in all austerity, echoing the words spoken by Abraham: ‘Lord, I who am but dust and ashes, wish first of all this morning to speak to Thy Majesty …’5 After presuming to address God, he turned to his congregation, determined not to mince his words with regards to his excommunication and his attitude towards the power of Alexander VI:
A governor of the Church is a tool of God … but if he is not used like a tool of God he is like a broken tool, all of which are alike … he is no greater than any man … You may say to him, ‘You do not do good, because you do not let yourself be guided by the supreme Lord’. And if he says, ‘I have the power’, you may say to him, ‘That is not true, because there is no hand guiding you, and you are a broken tool.’
Death in Florence: the Medici, Savonarola and the Battle for the Soul of the Renaissance City Page 35